


to be coming home again

by cynical_optimist



Series: stupid words i haven't said [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anxiety, Companion Piece, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 03:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11027700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical_optimist/pseuds/cynical_optimist
Summary: A part of you wants to protest the idea of you simply enjoying something because  your souls are connected or whatever, and yet-- you’ve seen breakdowns of soulmate relationships, seen all the ways they don’t work out, but this is something entirely different. It feels significant, like it’s more than two people meeting by chance and becoming friends.You’re not sure if that’s because you’re soulmates or if you’re soulmates because of that--you aren’t a philosophy major, after all-- but something about it hooks you right down to your soul, and that, if nothing else, is worth holding onto.





	to be coming home again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strangetowns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetowns/gifts).
  * Inspired by [i will implode with you ('cause i know we'll be all right)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7299229) by [strangetowns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetowns/pseuds/strangetowns). 



> Approximately nine months ago, [Sarah](https://sanashappinessisendgame.tumblr.com) mentioned in the [endnotes of iwiwy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7299229/chapters/17766184#chapter_4_endnotes) that I would be writing a Ransom pov companion fic. Now, for Sarah's birthday, here is the first part. Many thanks to Crystal for betaing. Title from Jason Mraz's [Lucky](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=acvIVA9-FMQ), because I wanted a song from [Holster's playlist in iwiwy](https://open.spotify.com/user/strange-towns/playlist/7qRP529psC4ufoDgp5eMN9).
> 
> Sarah, you're amazing. This fic can express only a small measure of the gratitude I feel to have you in my life, but what better way to celebrate you-- and our friendship-- than by writing about another drift compatible pair? You are the Holster to my Ransom, or maybe the Ransom to my Holster (considerably less romantic than these characters, but endlessly significant all the same). I love you heaps, and I hope this communicates at least some of that <3.

**_i._ **

You’d never imagined you’d meet your soulmate on your very first day of hockey practice at Samwell.

To be honest, you hadn’t expected to meet him for years; it’s rather rare for soulmates to meet in their first thirty years of life, if at all, and just because Birkholtz is a popular last name in the United States doesn’t mean you’re going to just happen to end up at the same college. Every statistic, no matter what the romcoms and general media might say, is against you. Hell, if you’re unlucky—or lucky, maybe, depending—you might not meet your soulmate until you’re both old and grey and have children and grandchildren and more life experience than you’ll ever share. It’s happened, even if it might be rare.

Your soulmate, though you don’t realise it the exact moment you meet him—that, too, is all romcom bullshit—is blonde and taller than you and probably one of the most attractive people you’ve seen. You think, in the split second before your eyes meet, that college can’t be as terrible as your sister claims if  _ this  _ is the type of person you meet here.

“Adam Birkholtz,” he says, after a moment, and your heart skips and then stutters. Just a moment later, you spy your own name on his wrist.

_ Oh _ , you want to say, and maybe  _ oh fuck _ , but you know the protocol in situations like these—the situation of every major romcom, of all the stories of  _ oh-how-did-you-two-meet _ and  _ hey-look-i-found-the-one _ —and instead you say, “Justin Oluransi.” You stutter over the syllables, just a little, feeling a little too off-kilter to be as smooth as you know you can be, but he grins, bright. You go to say something else, though you’re not entirely sure what, when another student skates past and yells something about nicknames.

You smile back. “’Swawesome, bro,” you say, and fistbump him, and all the stories always say  _ something _ about touching your soulmate for the first time, but it’s just a really awesome fistbump. There’s probably going to be a heap of just as—or even more—awesome fistbumps in the future. “Adam Birkholtz, eh? We were totally meant to be together, apparently.”

“I never doubted it for a single second,” he replies, and this, maybe, feels like the moment it starts to click, the moment things shift into place.

You haven’t believed in that romcom bullshit since you were ten years old, but  _ goddamn _ .

“So you’re a freshman, too?” you ask, after a few moments. You think you have a couple of minutes before the practice starts officially, and you want to clutch them tight to your chest and share them only with the person in front of you.

He nods. “Business.” He grimaces, but it’s amused, like he doesn’t actually hate the idea of it as much as his facial expression implies.

“Pre-med,” you reply, and he nods, appreciative.

“Nice, bro.”

It  _ is _ nice, even if you’re dreading almost every aspect of the actual  _ schooling _ aspect of it. “Yeah,” you agree, and that’s when the captain— _ your _ new captain, yours and Adam Birkholtz’s—calls everyone together.

The conversation, for a first conversation with a soulmate, is short, almost abrupt, but it feels just right. It feels like almost any conversation with this person will be that—just right, like pieces fitting perfectly, like everything falling into place.

It feels like a start.

-

You call your Mom almost as soon as you arrive back at your dorm, a little later than you’d meant to, caught up talking to Holster after the practice. You’d exchanged numbers, too, almost as soon as you fished your phones out of your bags in the locker room, and the entire walk back to the dorm had been filled with texting. You hadn’t crashed into anything, but it was a close call, and your steps were significantly slower than usual.

“Hey, honey,” she answers as soon as the call goes through.

“Hey, Mom,” you reply. “Are you busy?”

“Not really,” she hums. “Just finishing up some boring paperwork. How was your first practice? Are you settling in okay?”

You smile, leaning back in your chair. “Good,” you say. “And yes. I’ve only just started classes, and they haven’t discussed assignments or exams or anything yet.” You still know they’re there, of course, a looming figure of dread on the horizon, but you’ve only just started college. You can afford to not think about them for the first week, especially when you know how terrible it’s going to get closer to exam time.

“Good,” she says. “I’m glad you called, Jay. I was worried that you’d forget about your poor family when you ran off to college!”

“I saw you three days ago,” you protest. “And I called you last night.”

“We missed you!”

“You still have Izzy at home,” you say, and your mom chuckles over the line.

“She misses you too, though,” she replies. “We all miss you, now that you’ve gone off to a different country for college.”

You nod, even though you know she can’t see you. “I miss you too,” you say.

She hums again, and you can tell by the absent sound that she’s likely turned back to her paperwork. “Anything interesting happen? Meet anyone nice?”

You swallow: once, then twice. This is why you called her, but—this is also not a conversation you’d like to have. “Yeah,” you answer, faux casual.

“Oh?”

You open your mouth, then close it again. “Yeah,” you repeat, then, “my team seems really cool. Other D-man is awesome.”

“That’s great, honey.”

You nod, suddenly feeling a lot smaller than the six foot hockey player you’ve become. “He’s,” you say, then pause. “His name is Adam. Adam Birkholtz.”

“ _ Oh _ ,” she says. “Jay, that’s amazing.”

“He’s pretty cool,” you say. “We really clicked.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We’re totally bros, now.”

“ _ Bros _ ,” she repeats, amused, then pauses. “Do you want me to tell the others?”

“I don’t know how to,” you say, which is an answer in and of itself.

She sighs. “Em won’t hate you for finding your soulmate.”

“She might hate  _ him _ , though.” And,  _ yes _ , you’re reserving your official judgement on him for at least a few more weeks or months, but you don’t think Holster deserves that.

“Maybe,” your mom agrees. “But just because your father and I are the only soulmates in this family to work out in any way doesn’t mean you don’t have a chance.”

“I know,” you answer. You do, really—you’re more sceptical about the idea of “fated halves” than an average college student, probably, but you don’t go to the lengths  to spite the idea that half your family does. You  _ want _ to be friends with Holster, to be around him however you can. You wouldn’t be missing a part of yourself if you never spoke to him again, not at this point, but you still hope, with the stupid sort of optimism that you’ve never been able to rid yourself of, that that will never happen.

“Good,” she says. He hears shuffling of papers over the line. “You know I’m always here, don’t you? All of us are.”

“Yeah,” you answer. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Of course, Jay. I need to hand some of this in, now, so I have to go, but I love you, okay?”

“Love you, too.”

“Call more often!” she quips before she hangs up, and you stare at your phone for a few moments more. As you look, a message appears on the screen.

_ bro _

_ roommate says theres a party fri night _

_ interested? _

You were never really one for parties, not when your parents would stay up until you came home and you had two sisters living  just down the hall.

**_sure_** , you reply. This, like before, feels like the start of something, and whatever your family history, whatever your parents might fear, you think it’s something good.

-

Over the few weeks, you learn that Holster appreciates puns, does the best Patrick Star impression, looks amazing in glasses, and is more than happy to remain platonic soulmates.

In all honesty, you were a little worried about asking him. You’ve just started college, firstly, and the stress of figuring out a romantic relationship is not something you need right now. Dating was difficult enough in high school; you don’t even know what college would do. You’ve seen the fallout, though, from just one soulmate in a pair wanting to be romantic, and it tends to be painful all around. You don’t want to ruin things between the two of you, not so early on.

As it turns out, he’s exactly on your wavelength. That’s the most awesome part about having a soulmate--about having Holster, really. You’re different people, still, but you’re constantly on the same page. It’s not effortless but it’s nowhere near difficult, either. This is what soulmates are meant to be, you think-- the word hasn’t held much weight for you in years, but this is what it’s meant to mean.

You also learn, in the best turn of events  _ ever _ , that he is every bit as bi as you are.

“No way!” you say, before you can think of a better response, and, by the way his shoulders draw in, sharp retort making its way out of his mouth, it definitely could have been phrased better. “Sorry,” you add. “I mean, I’m bi, too!”

“No fucking way,” he echoes, and you laugh, the loud music of the party roaring in your ears. When you catch sight of his face, you can’t quite stop, because the pure joy in his expression is too fucking much to deal with.

You manage to sputter something about hot people and dating pools, but inside you are soaring, or something like it, because it feels like this, again, is just so  _ right _ , like everything the media says soulmates should be, like puzzle pieces fitting perfectly. You know it’s too soon to make that judgement with absolute certainty, but you and Holster just  _ work _ , in a way you don’t think you’ve worked with anyone in the past.

As you bi-five—and isn’t that amazing, that you have someone you can fucking  _ bi-five _ and make the best bi puns around—you know only this: that you are going to be the best bros that Samwell has ever fucking seen.

-

Not everything falls into place so perfectly, of course. No matter how well the two of you fit with each other, no matter how many times Shitty claims that you’re “motherfucking textbook soulmates, what the fuck,” there are some subjects that can’t just be innately understood.

You’ve just had your first look at this semester’s exam calendar, and you know you have to start the anxiety conversation with Holster before they get any nearer.

There is, of course, the option to just not tell him anything at all, but Holster is fast becoming the most important person at Samwell to you, and you know he’s pretty much in the same boat. Holy hell, you practically live out of each other’s pockets half the time. You’ve even picked up his habit of saying  _ holy hell _ .

Needless to say, he’s definitely going to be seeing you around exam time, or at least wanting to, and that’s something you need him to be prepared for, for his sake as much as your own.

The perfect opportunity arises when you’re chilling in his dorm, roommate nowhere to be seen, completely free of classes for the evening. You’re both working on homework, because you’re responsible students no matter how many kegsters you attend—or have even been considering organising—and he’s humming softly under his breath. He’s good, you’re pretty sure, but you haven’t actually heard him sing yet.

“Hey, Holtz?” you start, setting your laptop down beside you.

He looks up, no longer humming. “Yeah, bro?”

You swallow slide off the bed to sit on the floor with him. “So, like. Exams are coming up.”

Holster grimaces. “Fuck, they are, aren’t they?”

You nod, consider how you’re going to phrase this so it doesn’t seem like you’re needy or overstating things. You’d had a girlfriend in your sophomore year of high school that had taken one look at your panic attacks around assessment and walked the other way.  _ Just chill out _ , she’d said, in a very early attempt to help, and, well—they weren’t together long.

“Is everything okay?” Holster asks, frowning.

“I just—” you say, then stop. “I thought I’d warn you. I have really bad exam anxiety.”

“Shit, bro,” he says.

“Yeah. I become, like, a mess around exam time. I’m sort of a terrible fucking person to be around, so, like, if you want you can just stay away from me until they’re done.”

“Fuck, no!” he exclaims, then coughs. “I mean, if that’s what you need, then, like, one hundred percent. But please don’t say that to spare my feelings or what the fuck ever.”

Something soft seems to burst open inside your chest, spreading warmth through every cavity. “Thanks, bro,” you say, and your voice is fragile, a step away from breaking, but if you can’t be vulnerable around  _ Adam Birkholtz _ , who the fuck can you be vulnerable around. You’re probably going to cry in this conversation, so what?

“Of course, bro,” he replies. “So what can I do? When your anxiety gets bad.”

You swallow around a lump in your throat. “Uh, not, like, telling me it’s not a big deal or whatever is a big thing.” He nods, serious, bright blue eyes compassionate behind his glasses. “And usually my parents will bring me some water and put on some music I like. Sometimes I like having someone there but it depends.”

“Yeah, no problem, bro,” Holster says. “Literally just tell me whenever you think of something. We can figure it out as it happens, too.”

That's your favourite thing about Holster, you think-- he'll do anything he can to make you comfortable, or to help you with anything at all, even if it inconveniences him. Hell, he wakes up an hour earlier than he needs to two days a week just to get you up on time for your morning class. You've only known him for a couple of months, but he cares for you with a selflessness you rarely see.

“Thank you,” you say, and your smile is almost painful but it's perfect-- everything in you feels perfect in a messy mix of giddiness and relief.

“Cuddles?” Holster suggests, and you fall into his arms, because you could never turn down hugs--especially not from Holster, who holds those lucky enough tightly to his chest like they're the most precious human he's ever encountered. Tightly enough that you feel the pressure, but not so much you feel contained or trapped.

“Bro,” you say, curling your arms around him just as tightly. “You're the best.”

“Bro,” Holster replies. “That can't be true, because you're the best.”

“We’re both the best,” you concede, and neither of you likely look like anything a hockey player is expected to be, curled up together on Holster’s dorm floor, surrounded by textbooks, half a breath away from crying, but you wouldn't trade this for anything in the whole fucking world.

-

The first time you hear Holster sing,  _ really sing _ , it's an accident, but it's the happiest goddamned accident you've ever had.

You’re dead tired and half asleep already, cursing the college struggle that is communal showers, lugging your towel and all your other shit across the dorms, and by the time you actually get to the showers, you think you might just end up falling asleep upright. A part of you wants to turn back around and head back to your dorm, but your roommates showers are so few and far between that you know you need to set an example. You may be a hockey jock and a frat boy, but you are a  _ hygienic  _ one, goddamn it-- or will be, if your sleep-deprived brain will remember how to work the fucking shower controls.

You pad into the showers, yawning, and you find yourself caught, stuck with your mouth hanging open as you hear singing coming from a few stalls down.

It's Holster--you can recognise his voice, even in song--and you’d known he could sing but you had no idea he was  _ that good _ . You would have made him sing for you earlier if you'd known. You’d probably have made him sing every fucking conversation.

You listen to him sing for a few moments longer, light years more awake than you had been just two minutes ago. He's singing something about stars--you're pretty sure you've heard this song on the radio before, and you go to pull out your phone to google the lyrics before you realise that you left it back at the dorm to charge.

Motherfucking tired brain.

Part of you wants to call out to him, to alert him to your presence, but that doesn't feel right. You'd be stopping him, firstly, and you'd rather have this as a soundtrack to your shower than the odd, random creaks and groans that the water makes through the pipes.

Something about this, too, feels like a discovery. It’s weighted somehow, like there's so much more to happening upon your best bro singing than you’d see at first glance. It feels  _ big _ , important. You'll have plenty of time to rib him about it later--he's transitioning to a song from  _ Shrek _ , you're pretty sure, and  _ that's  _ definitely something to bring up at some point--but now is a moment to savour in peace.

Smiling to yourself, you leave him to it, and step into your own stall. You _ really _ just need to take your own shower and head back to the dorm to sleep, but this is pretty much as nice as anything else you could have done with your evening.

You're definitely bringing up that fucking  _ Shrek _ song later, though.

-

“Dude,” Holster says, when you bring up the singing thing. “Haven't you heard me before? I, like, sing all the time. I swear to fucking god, I was singing the entire Les Mis soundtrack the other day.”

You shake your head. “I have literally only heard you hum, bro.”

“Holy hell,” Holster says. “We need to fix this immediately.”

For about a week after that,  Holster sings about half your conversations. It would be annoying as hell if it wasn’t hilarious, or if he were any worse than he is. You’re almost disappointed when he stops, though it  only means the instances you do hear him sing feel just a little more precious.

Of course, it also means he’s about a million times more likely to reference random musicals in conversation. It’s not to the level of nineties sitcoms, of course, but musicals have never been your thing.

You end up regretting telling him that, just a little. After his initial shock, he corners you in a moment of free time with his laptop and a bowl of popcorn, and tells you in no uncertain terms that you’re not leaving until you’ve learnt to appreciate at least one.

“Bro,” you say, as he chooses between  _ Les Miserables  _ and  _ Legally Blonde _ . “I’m pre-med. I don’t need to know anything about musicals.”

“ _ Everyone _ needs to know about musicals,” Holster says. “No matter who they are. You’re my best bro, Rans-- you’re my  _ soulmate _ . You need to watch at least one.”

A part of you wants to protest the idea of you simply enjoying something because  your souls are connected or whatever, and yet-- you’ve seen breakdowns of soulmate relationships, seen all the ways they don’t work out, but this is something entirely different. It feels significant, like it’s more than two people meeting by chance and becoming friends.

You’re not sure if that’s because you’re soulmates or if you’re soulmates because of that--you aren’t a philosophy major, after all-- but something about it hooks you right down to your soul, and that, if nothing else, is worth holding onto.

It’s also, apparently, worth sitting through a few musicals for.

“Okay,” you say. At least he’s not making you watch terrible tv shows yet. “Sure, bro. Which one’s first?”

Holster grins at you, bright. “Bro, I knew you’d come around.” He looks back at his computer. “Uh,  _ Les Mis _ would probably be the best start. Even with Russell Crowe’s godawful singing, it’s a pretty good intro to musicals in general.”

He turns it on, and the two of you get settled into watching it, and it’s-- well, it’s not really that bad. The songs are catchy, and you recognise some of them, and it takes a more diverse stance on soulmates than most popular media.

You find yourself frowning, just a little, when you see Fantine singing about abandonment and lost dreams, rubbing at the name on her wrist as if she can erase it with enough effort. It stings, a little closer to home than a lot of popular movies.

You should call your sister at some point in the near future, probably.

“George Blagden-- the guy who plays Grantaire-- said he was playing he and Enjolras as soulmates,” Holster says as you watch a group of students sing about revolution, pointing to the characters he’s talking about. “In love, too. It’s like, half-canon in the book.”

“There’s a book?” you ask. “Have you read it?”

“Fuck, no,” he replies. “Who has? It’s fucking massive.”

After that, he turns back to the movie, only speaking up occasionally. He’s sort of the worst person to watch a movie with-- always making comments, nudging you when something particularly exciting or important is coming up. You are too, though, so it’s sort of perfect.

The hockey team has movie nights occasionally, and only three or four guys actually sit and watch the movie quietly. It’s like the attitude of watching sports translates over into every other piece of media, and every movie night turns into a loud, chaotic mess. You love every part of it.

There’s something, though, about this, about sitting with just Holster, feeling him warm and comforting all up your side as you watch people sing about death and love and everything in between.

You totally cry, during the movie and at the finale, but you really can’t be blamed for it, and Holster is totally bawling, too, so it doesn’t really matter.

“Holy hell,” he says. “That gets me every time.”

You nod, throat aching, 

“I want to see that, like, twenty times live,” he adds.

“I’ll come with you,” you reply, and it feels, somewhere deep inside you, like an admission.

“Great,” Holster grins, taking off his glasses to clean them. “So, we’re totally going to watch 30 Rock next.”

“Ugh,” you say.

Holster blinks at you, and a six foot hockey player should not be able to have puppy dog eyes but  _ goddamn _ . That’s just not fair.

“Fuck,” you say. “Fine, I’ll watch your shitty TV shows.”

Holster gasps. “They’re not  _ shitty _ ,” he says. “Or, well. They’re the best kind of shitty, if they are.”

“Sure, okay, dude,” you say, and he shoulder checks you playfully.

“You’re an asshole,” he says.

“I’m the best kind of asshole,” you counter, and choke on a popcorn kernel when he wiggles his eyebrows.

“I bet you are, man,” he laughs, and you shove him back.

“You can fuck right off,” you say, even though you’re snickering, and he lets his entire weight rest on you, as if you aren’t strong enough to push him away.

You are, but you don’t.

Maybe another time, or with another person, you would, but Holster is Holster, and you don’t mind him lying all over you. He’s only doing it to annoy you, in the way that Shitty would--though Holster  _ is _ more clothed, thankfully--but it doesn’t bug you. You lean back a little to accommodate for his weight, adjusting your arm so that it isn’t crushed under him.

For the rest of the afternoon, until your roommate gets back and Holster has to head back to his dorm, that’s how the two of you stay, and it’s comfortable in a way that little else is. Like you wouldn’t mind staying like that forever.

The thought isn’t as frightening as you thought it would be, and that, ironically, is what terrifies you the most.

-

Life with Holster continues in that pattern.

Not necessarily the  _ watch-movies-and-have-feelings-about-friendship _ pattern, but it does follow the gist  of being motherfucking ‘swawesome.

It’s like the two of you are becoming a cohesive unit, Ransom-and-Holster rather than Ransom and Holster. Like, the more time the two of  you spend together, the better you communicate, and yeah, that’s pretty on par for the course, but when you take into consideration how well the two of you communicated in the beginning-- it’s like superpowers, almost.

Sometime, early on, you’d drawn up a spreadsheet to track moments of borderline telepathy between you. After three weeks, you’d given up, the sheer amount of instances taking too long to fill in each day.

Spreadsheets usually make it easier for you, with things like this-- yes, they involve emotions and those can’t be measured, but there are always quantifiable aspects. Seeing those plainly spelled out on a page helps you to deal with situations. Sometimes it’s littler things, and sometimes it’s this-- the relationship almost everyone is telling you will be the most important you ever have.

And, somehow, it’s not something you can box up neatly, something you can put borders to or fit into specific parameters.

For a reason you can’t quite put into words, you’re alright with that. You only become  _ more _ alright with that as time stretches on, and that--

Well, you’re becoming surer that this will become something to stand the test of time. Like your parents have. Like a movie, almost.

You’d never quite expected to have a storybook soulmate experience, and yet here it is, though considerably more platonic than all the bestsellers tend to be.

And, yes, sometimes you wonder if maybe you and Holster could be something else, something decidedly less platonic, but you’ve had relationships in the past, and you can’t imagine having the same experience with him. The whole meet-date-breakup thing is just not something you want anything near your friendship. Dating him wouldn’t really be that much different to what you have now, anyway.

That being said, you’d totally be crushing on him if he wasn’t your best friend. He’s just your type, for one, and you’re still not over the way he looks in glasses. He’s also probably the best person you know, and you know a lot of people. Overall, though, he’s just  _ Holster _ .

So, you’re comfortable enough in your friendship to admit that Holster is exactly the type of person you would date if you weren’t best bros. That’s not important anyway, not in the long run, not when you have Holster by your side in absolutely any capacity.

You try to sort this all out in your mind before you call your sister, and consider writing down a few points. It’s the sort of conversation that requires a shitload of courage, and notes have never failed you before.

When you do end up calling her, your roommate is out at some sort of theatre social and Holster is texting you through one of his classes. It’s the perfect opportunity, and not something you should be putting off any longer.

_ hey, can i call? _ you text her, settling into your chair.

A few minutes and a few texts from Holster later, she replies.  _ sure! everything ok? _

Rather than replying, you press call, holding the phone to your ear.

“Jay-Jay,” Emma answers, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “What’s up?”

You worry at your bottom lip, standing and moving to your bed. “Um,” you say, eloquent as ever.

Your older sister snorts. “You alright there, dude?” She’s teasing you, of course, but there’s a note of concern in her voice.

You nod, then catch yourself. “Yeah, I’m good,” you reply, and swallow. “I have something to tell you.”

“Hm?” she hums. “Have you met someone?”

“...yeah?” you reply.

“Oh,  _ really _ ,” she says, and laughs again, all concern gone. “What are they like? What’s their name?”

You pause, then say, “He’s great. And-- Adam.”

“Oh,” she says, her voice flat and low. “Adam…?”

“Birkholtz,” you finish. “Yeah.”

For a good forty seconds, all you hear are her breaths, forcefully steady. A couple of times, the soft pattern is interrupted, as if she is going to say something, but she stays quiet. You don’t say anything either.

“You found your soulmate,” she says, deadly calm. “And you didn’t fucking run for the hills?”

“I was careful, Em,” you protest. “If he’d turned out to be like--him, I would’ve left and never looked back, I swear to fucking god.”

“Would you even tell me if he had?” she asks, then sighs. “Look, Justin, I don’t know how long you’ve known him for, but soulmates are bullshit. They’re just an excuse for assholes to decide that they have a right to your life because society tells them they do.”

“Do you think that’s what Mom and Dad are?” you ask, the question coming out sharper than you had intended--you’re not even certain whether the question intended to come out at all.

She pauses again. “Mom and Dad are an exception,” she says.

“Maybe we are, too,” you say. “He’s my best friend already, Em. He’s a good person. Like, really fucking good. He helps me with my test anxiety.”

That’s the only argument you have that might even come close to convincing her; it’s a hurdle that people close to you have tried and failed to clear in the past. It’s also a sign of caring that far surpasses any soulmate experience she’s had or seen.

“He does?” she asks.

“Yeah, totally,” you say, taking the foothold she’s offering you.  _ He calls it my coral reef mode _ , you almost want to say, but you’re not entirely sure that will ingratiate him to her. “He’s-- he cares.” 

There’s so much more you want to say about Holster-- that he’s a massive dork or that he knows what your coffee order is depending on your mood or that the two of you have started angling to get the attic in your dibs next year-- but it all feel to big to fit into words, like you’d never have enough sentences to cover everything you’d want to tell her.

“Are you sure?” she asks, and that you can answer with absolute surety.

“Yes,” you say, firm. You’ve doubted a lot over the years of your life, but it would be an insult to Holster and to how well you know him to doubt that.

“Okay,” she says, then, “I want to meet him sometime.”

You blink, once, then twice. “Yeah, okay,” you say. “He’d probably like that.”

“Good,” she replies tersely. “Now, how have you been?”

“Great,” you answer, and despite the tenseness of the first part of your conversation, the two of you fall into easy small talk. For a while, the two of you just talk about your lives-- she complains at length about some asshole on her transit to work, and you convince her to watch one of your games when she has the free time. There are topics you avoid, but there always are, and the couple of times that Holster comes up-- because of course he does, when you can’t even imagine your life without him now-- she doesn’t say anything too biting.

By the time you hang up, a piece that you’d hadn’t realised was fitted wrongly seems to slot back into place. You had no idea how much this particular issue had been tugging at you until it’s solved, and the relief that rushes over you in soft ways loosens your chest and airways.

Laying back on your bed, you press an arm over your eyes and breathe deeply, taking in air until your lungs threaten to burn. Softly, slowly, you smile.

Maybe you’ll bring Holster home with you one holiday soon. Maybe you’ll end up sharing the holiday-- you’re not entirely certain yet, but now, at least, you can face the possibility of introducing him to your family without too much fear. It’s not a topic you’ve talked about extensively yet, but you want this to be forever. Holster had assured you that it didn’t need to be, not if you didn’t want, but you  _ do _ , and that means meeting each others’ families and settling into each others’ lives and carving out places in your own.

You’re still smiling when Holster comes in, and you take your arm off your eyes, blinking bright glowing spots from your vision.

“Bro,” Holster says, and it sort of feels like both your grins are compounding each other, even though you’ve spent the day so far apart. “I texted you but you didn’t answer-- coffee at Annie’s?”

You pull your phone up to your face again, and notice the unanswered messages. “Sorry, bro,” you wince, and Holster shrugs, unconcerned. “Yeah, definitely though.”

Holster offers you his arm, pulling you up off the bed, and you grab your jacket and slip into your shoes.

“Everything cool?” Holster asks, slinging his arm over your shoulders-- you’re only two inches shorter than him, but you’re pretty sure he’s far prouder of those inches than he should be.

“Yeah,” you answer simply. “Yeah, everything’s great.”

And it’s true.

Everything  _ is _ great, or will be, with Holster by your side. Hell, you could even conquer your exams, the way you feel now, like everything has fallen into place and that place is Holster here, with you.

“Cool,” Holster says, still grinning, and you’re pretty sure you’d do anything to keep it there for the rest of his life, too see the way it lights up his eyes and entire goddamned face.

“Cool,” you reply, and the two of you head out for coffee, and this, now, is not a start, not after so long, but  when you think about all the years you hope to spend with Holster, it’s still the beginning, in comparison.

And what a beautiful fucking beginning it is.

**Author's Note:**

> All I can hope is that this was faithful to the original fic whilst still being its own entity. Next chapter will be out sometime after I finish this semester, probably.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://boxesfullofsanasmiling.tumblr.com).


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